


darling so it goes

by enoughiamagod



Series: Bondlock is Go [8]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), bondlock - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Loves His Sherlock, M/M, Q (James Bond) is a Holmes, i will never let this ship die, q is named quintin, they're so in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 23:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20497100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enoughiamagod/pseuds/enoughiamagod
Summary: Sherlock reflects on John, Q and Bond are really in love.





	darling so it goes

**Author's Note:**

> same note: repost of old work.

When Q goes back to work, James takes a break. He turns in his gun and sits quietly in Q’s chair, watching the hands of his quartermaster gently solder a wire or dance over a keyboard. He brings tea and muffins and drags Q away when it’s time to sleep. It’s two months before Q kicks him out, tells him he’s needed in the field, tells him he’ll be with him every step of the way. 

The first mission is exhilarating, pure violence, a simple in-and-out that takes him only a week. When he returns, it is to a bed and hungry kisses and hands and a body that seems like it will break. 

James is not used to holding fragile things, but he thinks he could be, in time.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Q and James go round for dinner on Thursdays, bringing a bottle of wine and crackers though John insists their company is enough. There they sit, at the cramped corner table, food piled high, laughing and talking as the night drifts on outside the window to 221B and the level of wine in the bottle lowers.

Mycroft is not invited to these dinners. He doesn’t expect to be, not after Q’s abduction or Sherlock’s drug use.

_ Really, not since we were young _ he thinks to himself, then shrugs it off. He’s not lonely, he swears, not hurt by his exclusion from dinners and parties. 

It’s true too that he could have made the effort, could have shown up more when the invitations came, but he was busy, very busy, and that wasn’t his fault, was it?

He turns on the treadmill and starts to run.

John sees the looks that flash between Quartermaster and agent, see the quick little touches of the hand and the heat that sizzles between them and when they stand to leave, Sherlock opens his mouth but John gently touches the back of his hand,  _ no,  _ and Sherlock closes it again. Goodnights are bid fondly, and heartily, and though they’ll be back for brunch on Sunday, this life is a precious gift. 

No one mentions Q’s scars, ever, or his stiffness of movement, and John, wise in ways Sherlock does not know but  _ sees  _ makes it look as if he is not helping while helping and Sherlock cannot help but to wish for that grace that John carries alight inside him. He does not have it, however, and his eyes meet James’ own sharp blue ones (this is a man he understands, all lines and formulas and values.  _ No sentiment.) _ and he sees that James sees, and is grateful. A fierceness rises in Sherlock,  _ a weakness _ , he tells his mind. No matter. John Watson is his heart, and Sherlock will always let him rule his head.

When Q and James get home, they kiss hot and sharp and needy in the doorway and through the halls, losing clothing until it’s bare skin sliding against skin and heat and flesh and teeth and sharp hips clutched by delicate fingers and cries and finally, when the sheets are tangled around them and the night lies quiet and still, they sleep.

Sherlock watches John from the bedroom, watches as he brushes his teeth, shirtless, ( _ showing off?  _ Sherlock does not know.) his body just going soft now, though John fights hard against age.

“He’s doing all right,” John says, without looking, and Sherlock nods in reply.

“He is, John. I am glad of that.” Sherlock lays down, and John comes in and sits next to him, smiling. He reaches and turns off the lamp, and moves into the bed, small and solid, and Sherlock breathes a bit easier and his heart races a bit faster, and he thinks that soon it will be time to go see the family jeweler and order the ring he’s drawn up, a ring made of all the things John Watson is, steel and love and this night, bodies not quite touching, breathing quiet in the dark, and a slow, steady hand reaching out to caress his own.

* * *

  
  


When summer comes and rains turn the air to a sticky, unpleasant mess, Sherlock likes to escape to the coast, and John can’t blame him for that. The two of them decide that a vacation is necessary, and commence packing.

John thinks that packing takes longer than the trip itself.

Finally, they are packed, and in the car, and off to the shore, where they will meet up with Quintin and James, for some much needed rest and relaxation. The car ride is long, but he passes the time amicably arguing with Sherlock about little things, and they get there soon enough. 


End file.
